‘Plenty,’ Artie scoffed, while their aunts bickered over who was pouring the gravy at the other end of the table. ‘When you spend a stretch inside, you get to trust your judgement – let me tell you that. Not all toffs are like de la Motte, o’ course. Some love knowing they got one up on you. They bask in it, like a pig in shit. Others, well, they’re more . . . sensitive to the matter. They know they’re born lucky and they don’t rub it in your face. See, this new king they got, this one come up while I was inside. Good King Edward, he’s one of us. He don’t care for all that pomp and circumstance. He doesn’t even care for the crown.’ At the other end of the table, Aunts May and Rebecca gasped. ‘There, I said it!’ roared Artie. ‘Yeah, he might’ve been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, same as the lot o’ them, but deep down he’s one of us really. I seen him, up and down the Mall, when I was up there with Bev – she’s my lady friend, Ray, but far too common for you. Old kings, now they used to wear gowns and furs and ermine and all sorts of that stuff you’ll be familiar with down at your hotel. But this king – well, it wasn’t exactly work boots and coveralls, but he wasn’t carrying no sceptre either. See, all that man wants – all any of us really want – is a quiet life, him and his soon-to-be-missus. It’s just that most of us don’t get the quiet life, because we’ve got to graft . . .’

Raymond’s fork clattered to his plate.

‘I don’t remember you grafting when they caught you ripping up railway sleepers, Arthur.’

‘That was my graft!’ Artie snarled. ‘And you’d have known it too, if you hadn’t run away like you did that night.’